Anne McCaffrey is dead and though it is not as such an untimely death, coming as it does at an age greater than many of our ancestors could have aspired to, I am prejudiced. Every good writers’ death is untimely because within them die worlds never translated to stories, never let out to live in others’ minds. Worlds that could have lived forever.
So I will mourn Anne and the worlds that died with her. And I will paraphrase Shakespeare and give her the sort of epitaph all of us (I think) aspire too: She was a writer, take it all in all. We shall not see her like again.
Further Update: Welcome Instapundit readers! Thank you to Glenn Reynolds for the link, though I regret the occasion of it.